Thornreach announced itself long before it was seen.

  A bell rang out across the water—clear, iron-hard, echoing off stone. Another answered from farther along the harbor wall. Then a third. Harbor watch. Dock signal. The sound carried through fog and timber alike, cutting clean through the ship’s last illusion of motion.

  The hull shuddered as lines were thrown. Rope hissed through calloused hands, scraped over wood, then snapped tight with a dull, final strain. Dockhands shouted from shore, their voices sharp and overlapping, bouncing back from wet stone and stacked crates.

  “Lines ready!”

  “Ease her in!”

  “Mind the current—hold!”

  Metal rang—hooks catching, chains checked and rechecked. The long breathing roll of open water was gone now. The ship sat heavy and still, pressed into the harbor like something that had been cornered.

  Above deck, routine took over.

  Raizo’s voice cut clean through the noise, unhurried and absolute. “Bow line secure. Stern next. Manifest comes up first—no one moves before I see it.” Boots shifted when he spoke. Men moved faster, straighter. Order settled in the same way it always did: not through fear alone, but habit.

  Below deck, the hold felt tighter.

  Lantern light wavered against damp wood, throwing shadows that stretched and shrank with every movement above. Toren stood at the base of the ladder, shoulders stiff, hands clenched so hard the cords in his forearms stood out. Liora stood beside him, posture controlled, breath shallow and measured—but her fingers flexed once, then stilled.

  They exchanged a look.

  No words. No time.

  Shiro stood between them, ears pricked, body low and coiled, every muscle pulled tight in restraint.

  Hikaru sat against the far wall in shadow, knees bent, back straight despite the ache crawling up his leg. He had been here for hours, waiting for this exact shift—the moment when movement became pattern, and pattern dulled attention. His hands moved once, subtle as breath, checking the tacky slickness already worked into his palms.

  Keys slid together above. The sound was unmistakable.

  Raizo leaned into the opening, lantern light catching the edge of his armor and the scarred leather at his shoulders. His gaze swept the hold in a single, practiced pass.

  Counting.

  “Where’s the boy?”

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  Hikaru pushed himself upright.

  Pain speared through his ankle, sharp and wet. He sucked in a breath, steadied, and began to hobble forward, uneven but deliberate. Each step was measured, his weight carefully controlled. When he reached the ladder, he lifted his trouser leg with shaking fingers.

  Teeth marks. Mangled flesh. Swollen, dark, ugly.

  “I— I might need a bit of help,” he said, voice thin, unsteady.

  Raizo’s brow furrowed. “What happened to you?”

  Shiro let out a small, broken whine and turned his head away, tail tucked low in shame.

  Raizo stared at the dog for a long moment—then laughed.

  A short, barking sound. Amused. Dismissive.

  “That it?” he said, shaking his head. “That the mutt your father told you to save?” He let the words roll lazily off his tongue. “Threw you a bone, did he—told you it mattered. Trick you into walking quietly into slavery. I should take notes from your father.”

  Raizo laughed then—deep and unrestrained. It hit him hard enough that he had to brace a hand against his knees, shoulders shaking as the sound tore out of him. For a moment he bent forward, breath hitching, laughter wheezing through his chest like something dragged up from too deep.

  When he straightened, there was moisture at the corner of his eyes—not from feeling, but from excess.

  He wiped it away with the back of his hand and looked down at Hikaru again, grin still carved wide.

  He snorted and looked back at Hikaru. “Funny thing about boys like you. You always think there’s one thing worth keeping.”

  His gaze dropped to Shiro again, cold now. “That’s usually what makes it easy for you.”

  Hikaru raised his hands next—filthy, bruised-looking, trembling openly. “Please, help me up.” he whispered.

  Raizo snorted. “I’m not touching your filthy hands.” He jerked his chin downward. “You two—help him up.”

  Toren stepped forward.

  Hikaru moved first.

  The strike came fast and wild, all restraint burned away in a single motion. His fist smashed into Toren’s face with everything he had. Bone cracked. Cartilage collapsed. Toren screamed and went down, clutching his nose as blood poured between his fingers.

  Liora gasped sharply, one hand flying to her mouth before she could stop it. Her eyes locked on Hikaru—not in fear, but in stunned disbelief at how fast it had happened.

  “I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE!” Hikaru shouted, voice tearing raw from his chest.

  The hold exploded into motion.

  Raizo roared, vaulting down the ladder in a single heavy drop. Shiro’s growl rolled low and dangerous, vibrating through the deck. Raizo’s face split into something almost eager.

  “You’ve got more fight in you than I thought!”

  “Wait—Hikaru, stop,” she whispered, the words barely leaving her throat as her fingers curled into the fabric at her sides, knuckles whitening.

  His knuckles crossed Hikaru’s face before the words had even finished leaving his mouth.

  The impact snapped Hikaru’s head sideways. Light burst behind his eyes. His feet left the deck completely, body lifted by the force of it, before he crashed back down in a tangle of limbs and breath. Pain rang sharp and hollow through his skull, the taste of iron flooding his mouth as he sucked in air that wouldn’t come fast enough.

  Raizo loomed over him, already reaching.

  Hands like iron closed around Hikaru. He kicked, twisted, tried to wrench free—but Raizo was a fully grown man, all muscle and weight and practiced control. Every movement Hikaru made was swallowed, contained, redirected.

  Raizo shoved him toward the ladder. “Up. First.”

  Fine.

  Hikaru turned toward the ladder.

  Liora’s breath steadied, jaw tightening as she forced herself to look away from him and toward the ladder. Stick to the plan, she told herself—whether it was a plea or an order, she couldn’t tell.

  Each step hurt. He let it. Pain was noise—sharp, insistent, but meaningless if you listened to it too closely. Distance mattered more.

  Six steps.

  He counted them as he moved, eyes unfocused, breath kept uneven on purpose. One. Two. Three. Four. The ship shifted beneath him, but the count stayed clean.

  The fifth mattered.

  The left side of the ladder was dark—too dark. That was where he’d laid the oil. Thin. Invisible. Waiting. If his left foot went there, the trap would take him too.

  He adjusted without slowing, without looking down. A half-step. A slight turn of the hip.

  Five—right.

  The ladder filled his vision. Wood was worn smooth by years of hands and boots that had never questioned where they stepped.

  Raizo’s shadow fell over him.

  Hikaru placed his hands on the rungs—clean side, rough side, exactly as planned—and began to climb.

  The rungs creaked softly under his weight. Behind him, Raizo followed close—too close. A massive hand clamped around Hikaru’s ankle, fingers digging in as the man leaned forward.

  Near the top, Hikaru climbed the last rung and pulled himself onto the deck.

  He turned.

  Toren rolled onto his side with a choking groan, hands clamped over his face. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and wet, dripping onto the planks below. He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it, pain flaring hot and blinding.

  “What the hell—” His voice broke as he tried to stand. “You broke my—”

  He stopped, gagging, one hand flying to his mouth as something shifted wrong beneath his palm. His knees hit the deck again, wood biting into them as he fought not to retch.

  “My nose,” he finished hoarsely, panic creeping in around the edges. “You broke my nose.”

  He glared up through watering eyes, rage and disbelief twisting his features. “You little—”

  The words dissolved into another wet cough as blood spilled free again, splattering the deck.

  Raizo’s face crested the floorboards an instant later, teeth bared in a grin that hadn’t yet realized it was about to be tested. Hikaru’s foot hurled toward him on instinct, fast and ugly.

  Raizo’s eyes widened. He shifted back just enough for the kick to glance past his face—but his hand snapped out, iron fingers locking around Hikaru’s ankle as he finished hauling himself up.

  “Think you’re slick?” Raizo snarled, dragging himself higher. “You might make a slaver one day, bo—”

  His left foot slid.

  Not far. Not fast. Just enough.

  His focus was on Hikaru—on the boy struggling in his grip—not on the rung beneath him. The oil did the rest, stealing traction in silence.

  Raizo’s weight shifted wrong.

  Hikaru lunged forward, driving his body into Raizo’s chest as the man’s balance failed completely.

  The world dropped.

  Raizo went backward, grip tearing loose as the ladder vanished beneath him. Wood and metal thundered as he fell, the impact ripping through the deck in a violent shudder.

  Hikaru followed, crashing down on top of him. Robbing the air from his lungs.

  Rage flared in Raizo’s eyes.

  Hikaru didn’t wait for it.

  “SHIRO—NOW!”

  Shiro launched.

  He sprang over Raizo’s shoulder and Hikaru’s bowed head in one white blur, paws striking wood with a crack that echoed up the stairwell. His claws bit, found purchase, and he was already scrambling upward along the right side of the steps, ribs tight, breath sharp, every instinct screaming forward.

  Liora’s heart seized. For a heartbeat she forgot the stink of pitch and sweat, the way the ship groaned beneath them. All she could see was Hikaru crumpled where Raizo had slammed him...

  Raizo moved first.

  He hurled Hikaru aside like dead weight, the boy skidding across the planks with a rasp of skin and cloth. “Get the dog!” Raizo barked, voice cracking like a whip. “Don’t let it reach the deck!”

  He was already taking the stairs two at a time, bulk thundering upward. Boots pounded behind him as slavers surged into motion, curses and shouts tangling in the narrow space.

  Shiro burst into daylight.

  Sunlight spilled over the deck in a pale wash, filtered by a low, clinging fog that crawled along the water and licked the ship’s sides. The air tasted of salt and damp rope. Men were posted along the rails—one to either side—and the moment Shiro emerged, blades flashed.

  Hands hissed past his tail.

  Close enough that the fur at the tip fluttered from the slipstream.

  Shiro yelped—not in pain, but in warning—and veered, nails scraping as he skidded across wet planks. The deck was a maze of stacked crates, coiled lines, tarred barrels, and the low rise of the forecastle. He darted between a pair of casks, leapt a coil of rope, and ducked under a spar propped against the rail. Hands snatched at empty air behind him.

  “Careful, you idiot!” someone shouted as another slaver slammed into a crate, sending it rocking.

  The ship creaked, timbers complaining as Shiro tore across it. This wasn’t some flat open floor—Hikaru had seen that on the walk down the docks days ago. The hull rose and dipped in uneven lines, ribs of wood curving like the back of some great beast. Every step was a gamble, Shiro made without thinking.

  Raizo burst onto the deck in a snarl of breath and iron. His eyes snapped to the plank first.

  “Hold there!” he roared, charging for it. He planted himself at the edge, boots wide, axe coming up as a threat to anyone—dog or man—who thought of leaping.

  Below, the fog clung thicker where the ship kissed the dock. The water slapped softly against the hull, dark and cold.

  Hikaru dragged himself upright.

  The world swam for a second—wood grain bending, sounds stretching thin—then snapped back into place. He sucked in a breath that burned and ran for the stairs, mind already racing. Plank guarded. Rails manned. Dock close. Fog cover. Shiro still moving.

  “Shiro!” he shouted, voice raw.

  The white dog vaulted a low hatch, skidded across the slope of the deck, and sprang again, using a loose board as a ramp to clear another grasping hand. A slaver lunged; Shiro snapped at the wrist, teeth flashing, not biting deep enough to hold—just enough to make the man flinch. He rolled under a swinging hook and came up running.

  Raizo’s head whipped toward Hikaru. “Get back down!”

  Hikaru didn’t slow. “You’re watching the wrong edge!”

  Shiro saw it.

  The gap.

  Between two men along the rail, where the fog was thickest and the dock lay just close enough to tempt fate. Shiro feinted left, then cut hard right. A hand caught his scruff for half a heartbeat—fingers sliding through fur slick with mist—and then he was free.

  “Hikaru!” Liora cried, the sound torn from her before she could stop it.

  Too late. He was focused.

  Boots thundered across the deck, past shouting men and flashing steel, past ropes and crates and chaos. Someone yelled his name. Someone reached for him.

  Hikaru hit the rail and didn’t think.

  Hikaru didn’t hesitate.

  He vaulted over the rail.

  For a heartbeat, his white hair caught the light of the sun.

  Then he was gone.

  The sea swallowed him whole.

  A violent splash tore through the night, waves exploding outward as his body vanished beneath the surface.

  “No—!”

  Raizo spun.

  Panic and fury twisted together in his eyes.

  “After him!” he roared. “Don’t let him drown—drag him back!”

  He broke into a sprint toward the plank, boots hammering the deck as he leaned over the railing, scanning the dark water.

  From above, Liora froze.

  She stood at the upper rail, fingers clenched so tightly around the wood that splinters bit into her skin. Salt spray dampened her hair. Smoke burned her lungs. Shouts rang in her ears.

  None of it mattered.

  All she could see was Hikaru disappearing into the sea.

  “…No,” she whispered.

  Her chest felt hollow.

  Ropes flew. Men cursed and strained. Moments stretched like eternity.

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  Then—

  Two figures were dragged up from the waves.

  Hikaru. Soaked. Coughing. Barely conscious.

  They hauled him over the rail like cargo. Not gently. Not carefully.

  One hand seized his right arm. Another crushed his left.

  Raizo. And a slaver.

  They wrenched him upright, twisting his shoulders painfully, forcing him to stand. Water poured from his clothes. His body shook as he gasped for breath, lungs burning.

  Liora took a step forward. Stopped.

  She was too far. Too weak. Helpless.

  Shiro looking back caught the image. From the dock, he had turned back at the splash. Now he watched.

  Hikaru’s head hung for a moment. Then—slowly—he lifted it.

  Pain carved itself into his face, but his crimson eyes were still clear.

  They searched. Found Shiro.

  Hikaru drew in a trembling breath. His lips parted. He tried to speak.

  Raizo noticed.

  “No,” Raizo snarled.

  He drove his forearm across Hikaru’s throat, crushing the air from his lungs. “You don’t get to—”

  Hikaru’s vision blurred. His chest burned. Still—

  He didn’t look away.

  With the last of his strength, he leaned forward. And bit. Hard.

  His teeth sank into Raizo’s arm. Blood welled instantly.

  “Agh—!” Raizo roared, staggering back.

  And in that single heartbeat of freedom—

  Hikaru shouted.

  “RUN!”

  His voice cracked.

  “Shiro—RUN!”

  The word tore itself from his chest like it might be the last thing he ever said.

  Liora’s breath left her in a broken sob.

  Shiro froze. The world narrowed. Sound faded.

  All he saw was him. Bruised. Bleeding. Held like a prisoner. Still fighting. For him.

  A tear slid down Shiro’s face. Hot. Unstoppable.

  He had been nothing. Alone. Starving. Forgotten.

  Until this human had knelt beside him. Fed him. Protected him. Loved him. Given him life.

  Once.

  And now—

  Again.

  With blood. With pain. With everything he had left.

  “I won’t waste it,” Shiro thought. “I won’t waste you.”

  He turned. And ran.

  His paws struck the dock in desperate rhythm, carrying him farther and farther away. Tears streamed from his eyes, falling to the wood like rain and vanishing as quickly as they formed.

  Behind him were chains. Screams. Cruel hands. And Hikaru.

  Ahead was fear. Loneliness. Survival.

  But also—

  Hope.

  Because someone had believed in him enough to let him live.

  Liora watched until Shiro disappeared into the darkness. Only then did she realize she was crying.

  Hikaru sagged in their grip. Every breath burned. Salt filled his mouth. His chest ached as if fire had been poured into his lungs. His arms were numb where rough hands crushed them, twisted them behind his back.

  But inside—

  He felt calm.

  Shiro ran.

  He made it.

  That was enough.

  Through blurred vision, Hikaru caught one last glimpse of the empty dock.

  No white fur. No small figure frozen in fear.

  Gone.

  A weak smile tugged at his lips.

  I did it…

  Laughter broke out around him. Rough. Ugly. Cruel.

  “Hah! Did you see that?” one slaver snorted. “Nearly drowned himself for a mutt!”

  “Worthless little hero,” another sneered. “Think he’s brave now?”

  They shoved him forward. Hikaru stumbled but didn’t fall.

  From the upper rail, Liora stayed hidden in shadow. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. She wanted to run. To scream. To do something. But her legs wouldn’t move.

  She watched as they dragged him across the deck, soaked and shaking, leaving a trail of water behind him.

  Then Toren stepped forward. He hadn’t been there before. He pushed through the group slowly, eyes fixed on Hikaru.

  One of the slavers laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Go on. Your turn.”

  They let him through. With permission.

  Toren stopped in front of Hikaru. For a moment, he just stared.

  Then—

  He struck.

  His fist slammed into Hikaru’s stomach. Hard.

  All the air left Hikaru’s lungs in a broken gasp. His body folded forward, pain exploding through his ribs. Someone laughed. “Nice one!” “Hit him again!” Liora’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened in horror. Toren…?

  He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t like them. So why—

  Why was he doing this? She wanted to shout. To tell him to stop. But fear crushed the words in her throat.

  Hikaru barely reacted. He forced himself upright again, swaying. Still breathing. Still conscious. Still standing. Raizo watched the entire thing in silence. His arms were crossed. His expression unreadable. Finally, he clicked his tongue. “Tch.” He stepped forward.

  “Enough.”

  The laughter faded.

  Raizo grabbed Hikaru by the shirt and hauled him upright with one hand.

  “Do you have any idea how stupid that was?” he growled.

  Hikaru met his gaze weakly.

  “…He’s… safe.”

  Raizo froze.

  For half a second.

  Then he scoffed.

  “You’re insane,” he muttered. “Nearly killed yourself for a dog.”

  He studied Hikaru’s face—bruised, pale, stubborn.

  “…But you did it.”

  The words came out quieter than intended.

  Raizo didn’t like that.

  Didn’t like that he was impressed.

  Didn’t like that it worked.

  He shoved Hikaru forward, not letting go.

  “Crazy brat.”

  He dragged him across the deck and threw him down near the mast.

  Hikaru hit the wood hard, pain rippling through his body.

  He didn’t cry out.

  That only annoyed Raizo more.

  “Chain him,” Raizo ordered.

  “No more stunts.”

  Cold metal scraped.

  Heavy links were wrapped around Hikaru’s ankles.

  He felt them close.

  Click.

  Click.

  The lock snapped shut. Tight. Unforgiving. Immovable.

  Hikaru stared at the chains around his legs. Breathing slowly.

  Shiro was free.

  So it was worth it.

  The ship sailed on.

  And in that moment—

  Far away. Beyond seas and skies. Beyond light and judgment.

  Something noticed.

  The hall stretched endlessly before him—vast, cavernous, oppressive. Six massive pillars stood in two perfect rows, three on each side, carved from dark gray concrete that seemed older than memory itself. Atop each pillar burned a towering torch, its flame a deep, unnatural crimson, fed by hellfire rather than oil.

  The air was thick. Heavy. Every breath felt taxed, as though something unseen pressed against his lungs.

  Power saturated the chamber.

  At the far end rose a wide platform of blackened stone.

  Upon it stood a throne.

  Not made of gold.

  Not of jewels.

  Of solid obsidian and bone.

  Behind the throne hovered a massive sphere of living fire.

  Nearly five meters tall, it burned with the intensity of a miniature sun, its surface writhing and churning endlessly. Blazing currents of light spiraled within it, colliding and reforming in violent, beautiful chaos.

  It was contained.

  Trapped inside an invisible barrier.

  Yet its presence alone flooded the hall with unbearable heat and blinding radiance.

  To look at it too long made one’s vision blur.

  To stand before it made the soul feel exposed.

  It was not natural.

  It was not meant to exist.

  It was power torn from somewhere it never should have been.

  And placed here.

  As a trophy.

  Silence ruled.

  Not peaceful.

  Dominant.

  The kind that demanded obedience.

  Two figures stood closest to the throne.

  Both were tall.

  Both were strikingly handsome.

  The first wore a long, dark coat embroidered with subtle crimson patterns. His silver hair was tied neatly behind his head, his sharp features calm and unreadable. His crimson eyes never left the throne.

  The second stood beside him with his arms folded. He had short black hair, a strong, sculpted frame, and flawless dark skin that reflected faintly in the firelight. His expression was cold, disciplined, and utterly devoid of emotion.

  They did not speak.

  They did not move.

  They existed like sentinels—silent reminders of authority.

  Only after standing in their shadow did anyone dare to talk.

  Mammon shifted first.

  He adjusted the golden chain at his neck…

  “…You ever notice how fragile humans are?” he murmured.

  Beelzebub grunted softly.

  “They break easily.”

  Mammon smirked. “Physically, yes. Mentally? Even easier. A whisper in the right ear and they destroy themselves.”

  Beelzebub stroked his beard. “Angels aren’t much better. Too rigid. Too proud.”

  “Mm,” Mammon agreed. “At least humans know they’re weak.”

  He paused, then leaned closer.

  “Unlike the Young Lord.”

  Beelzebub’s eyes flicked sideways.

  “…What about him?”

  Mammon’s grin widened. “Ten years old. Broke a seal older than most of us.”

  Beelzebub frowned. “At that age?”

  “Didn’t even struggle,” Mammon said lightly. “Just… erased it.”

  Silence fell again.

  Beelzebub exhaled slowly. “That kind of power draws attention.”

  Mammon shrugged. “With her blood? It was inevitable.”

  Before Beelzebub could reply—

  The distant groan of metal echoed.

  Heavy doors shifted.

  Locks disengaged.

  With a thunderous crash, the massive gates at the far end of the hall burst open.

  Light spilled in.

  Footsteps followed.

  Uneven.

  Dragged.

  Sariel staggered inside, wings sagging, robes soaked with sweat.

  He wiped his face, muttering bitterly.

  “Disgusting place… air’s so thick it feels like breathing through stone… how do you creatures survive in this furnace…”

  The doors slammed shut behind him.

  The echo rolled through the hall.

  Every gaze turned.

  Toward the angel.

  Sariel’s footsteps echoed.

  Each one struck the concrete floor like a hammer against stone. Thrusting power in every stride to the throne, seated before it—

  She.

  Her beauty was impossible to define.

  Perfect skin, untouched by flaw. Features so balanced they seemed unreal. Dark hair flowed like silk down her back, catching firelight like polished glass. Her crimson eyes were calm.

  Watching.

  Judging.

  Around her stood the lords of Hell.

  Vaelrith leaned against one pillar, her elegant form coiled with barely restrained violence. Her eyes gleamed with predatory amusement.

  Belial stood with arms crossed, broad and unmoving, like a living fortress.

  Beelzebub rested heavily against another column, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

  Mammon reclined lazily on a stone seat, gold jewelry gleaming against crimson cloth.

  All eyes turned to Sariel.

  Mammon’s lips curled.

  “Well, well… an Archangel in our hall. How nostalgic.”

  Beelzebub snorted.

  “He looks worse than last time.”

  Sariel straightened his wrinkled robes. Greasy black strands clung to his face. He swallowed, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

  Then—

  He smiled weakly.

  “You look tired, my dear.”

  Silence.

  The flames froze.

  The air stilled.

  Vaelrith’s head turned slowly.

  “…What did you just say?”

  Sariel blinked.

  “I said you—”

  The world collapsed.

  An invisible force slammed into him.

  Gravity twisted.

  Crushed.

  Sariel’s body hurtled downward like a meteor.

  BOOM.

  Concrete exploded.

  His skull struck first.

  Then his shoulders.

  Then his spine.

  The floor shattered beneath him as his body was driven deep into the stone.

  Cracks spiderwebbed outward.

  Dust erupted into the air.

  When it settled, Sariel lay embedded in the ground.

  His silhouette—wings, limbs, head—was carved perfectly into the concrete.

  Blood leaked from his mouth.

  His vision spun.

  Stars exploded behind his eyes.

  Vaelrith floated above him, one hand raised.

  Her eyes burned.

  “You festering, wing-shorn maggot.”

  Her voice was poison.

  “You dare address the Eternal as though she were some tavern wench to be pawed at?”

  She descended slowly.

  Each step sent shockwaves through the floor.

  “In her presence—a God beyond your fallen light—you spew endearments like a lovesick cur.”

  Sariel tried to move.

  He couldn’t.

  Gravity pinned him like a corpse.

  “I’ll rip those gilded plumes from your back one by one, cauterize the stumps with brimstone, and feed your quivering marrow to the hellhounds while you still draw breath.”

  Her shadow loomed over him.

  “They’ll gnaw slow, savoring the screams of a traitor who once dared to fly too close to divinity.”

  She knelt beside his head.

  “And when your husk begs for oblivion, I’ll deny it—eternally.”

  Mammon whistled.

  “Wow… someone’s upset.”

  Beelzebub shook his head.

  “He really shouldn’t have done that.”

  Belial muttered flatly.

  “Idiot.”

  A single voice cut through everything.

  “Enough.”

  The pressure vanished.

  The gravity released.

  Sariel’s body collapsed limply into the crater.

  Vaelrith stiffened.

  “…My…”

  She clenched her fists.

  “…My Lady.”

  The woman on the throne had not moved.

  Her voice was calm.

  “A dead spy is no use to us.”

  Sariel coughed violently, blood splattering the fractured floor.

  “I… I meant no disrespect.”

  “Continue.”

  Her tone did not change.

  Sariel forced himself onto trembling hands.

  “The boy at ten years old has used reincarnation magic.”

  Beelzebub blinked.

  “…So?”

  Belial frowned.

  “That alone proves nothing.”

  Vaelrith scoffed.

  “Demons awaken that power eventually. Try again.”

  Sariel raised his head.

  “He did it before judgment.”

  Mammon’s grin vanished.

  “…What?”

  “Before the soul was processed. Before condemnation. Before passage.”

  Beelzebub stiffened.

  “That’s impossible.”

  Mammon leaned forward.

  “Wait—if he cycled back that early… is the whelp even human? Could be one of ours masquerading.”

  Belial shook his head.

  “A demon born mortal? Unheard of. Or perhaps a half-breed slipped through the cracks.”

  Beelzebub narrowed his eyes.

  “Or nothing infernal at all. Some celestial glitch. Either way, it reeks.”

  Vaelrith snapped.

  “Enough speculation. Let him finish his fairy tale.”

  Sariel swallowed.

  “My minions are watching the boy even now.”

  “He is caged as a slave on a galley bound for Thornsreach.”

  “My watcher has never failed me.”

  Beelzebub growled.

  “That violates every law.”

  Belial nodded.

  “Death cannot be bypassed.”

  Mammon whispered.

  “That would mean—”

  Vaelrith cut in sharply.

  “Lies.”

  “Fabrication.”

  “Heavenly propaganda.”

  The woman’s voice interrupted.

  “Or misinformation.”

  Sariel lifted his head desperately.

  “Your Grace, I witnessed—”

  “You witnessed fragments.”

  “Fragments are unreliable.”

  Mammon hesitated.

  “So… we ignore it?”

  “We observe.”

  Beelzebub frowned.

  “And if it’s real?”

  “Then it will reveal itself.”

  Belial inclined his head.

  “No intervention.”

  “None.”

  Her gaze fell on Sariel.

  “And you, Sariel—you had best not be wasting my time with false information.”

  Sariel bowed as low as his broken body allowed.

  “I would not dare, Eternal One. My report is truth, on my remaining grace.”

  “Understood… My Lady.”

  Vaelrith sneered.

  “Speak properly next time.”

  Mammon smirked.

  “If there is a next time.”

  Far above them, flames roared.

  And far away, in chains—

  A boy slept.

  Unaware that Hell had begun to watch him.